Hammer
by GGE
Summary: It's hot, so Sherlock's gone to get ice. John needs to fix the door and can't find the hammer.


It was summer, a bit hot for London. One of the things John _didn't_ miss about being home was the oh-so-common complaint of "It's so hot!" This came from people who'd never been to Afghanistan, wearing nearly forty-five and a half kilos, trudging through deserts. It felt like his skin was melting as he breathed in fire.

He sighed. They had never been, so how would they know? Yes, it's a bit hot. Now, he was looking for the toolbox. God only knows where Sherlock might have put it. Or what he'd done with it.

"Sherlock!"

"Yes, what is it?"

"Do you know where the hammer is?" Silence filled the flat briefly.

"...Why do you ask?" came the eventual reply.

"I was going to fix the door."

Sherlock, downstairs, not hiding, inquired further, "Why do you need a hammer to fix the door?"

"Why won't you tell me where it is?" John was starting to get suspicious. He inched closer to the stairwell.

"I have the ice you asked for. I hope you know it involved battling an elderly lady since it was the last bag. She only stopped squawking at me when I told her that her grandson was still taking speed and wasn't attending college."

"How did you guess that?" John asked, momentarily deflected. He leaned over the banister to look for his odd flatmate.

"Her shoes and a bag from the charity shop with a young man's jacket inside. First, easily fastened Velcro shoes, pink and yellow. Too bright for your typical retired woman, so a present. Someone wanted to give her something practical and helpful, but doesn't know what she likes. Shoes are too personal a gift to give to a casual acquaintance, the color suggests someone younger. The pink probably wasn't chosen by a girl, as a girl is more likely to notice that the lady doesn't wear pink.

"The jacket in the bag belonged to a male. Likely young male relative, grandson, given her age. Also, old. The shoes, not the woman. They _were_ a present. Someone _did_ care. Maybe still does, but no recent gifts she'd wear in public. Not up to the same standard. Likely financial difficulties, but the woman showed no signs. Something only the young male is going through, then.

"Onto the jacket. Older, like the shoes, but preserved. Clothing can be considered an extension of identity or at the very least a rough indication of diet, so the grandson has gone through something affecting what he wears a while ago. Something the grandmother disapproves of, so she kept the jacket in case. The jacket was in a charity shop bag, somewhere she'd frequented, evidently. She's taken the jacket there once and gone again to get it back. Her hope in the grandson is restored.

"Now, the original problem. What makes a young man from a relatively affluent background change his attire, giving up an old jacket, give his beloved grandmother poorer quality gifts, and then have her retrieve the jacket in renewed expectation? Attitude change, towards himself and others, possible weight loss or gain, drain on finances, abrupt modification to behaviour of which the grandmother approves. Likely: illegal substance, probably speed.

"If he's begun to neglect his grandmother, someone for whom he'd once gone to the effort of buying shoes to show he cares, it's a reasonable assumption that he regularly misses college."

John gave him a look. "Not your best, Sherlock."

"What?" He looked up, stunned.

"There's something you've obviously not considered," John elaborated. "He could have just gotten a girlfriend. Or boyfriend. Partner, at any rate. Or a new hobby. Anything she might have disapproved of would fit the bill, really."

"Why would he lose the jacket?"

"Maybe the _partner_ disapproved."

"Why would he stay with someone who didn't like his jacket?" Sherlock looked even more confused.

"What you don't know about relationships... By the way, there's something else I don't get."

"How can I lack so much creativity and have it pointed out to me by you?" He was being overly dramatic, hitting his head on the wall as he spoke. The ice was probably half melted by now.

"No. But actually it's two things. How do you know the kid is still using speed?"

"I don't. But it stopped her fighting with me for the ice," Sherlock answered with a grin. "Anything else?"

"Where's the hammer?" John asked. "Oh, don't give me that, I know you know where it is."


End file.
